


Come Forth as Gold

by yaycoffee



Series: LWS Trope Bingo [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-13 04:53:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2137683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yaycoffee/pseuds/yaycoffee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the day Mary Watson dies, John goes missing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Forth as Gold

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [letswritesherlock Trope Bingo Challenge](http://letswritesherlock.tumblr.com/post/92844722125/challenge-15-trope-bingo-how-does-one-play). (Card 1, prompt: sharing a bed)
> 
> I am organizing all the stories I write for the LWS Challenge into a series. The stories will be one-off pieces with unconnected timelines and plotlines.

 

_But he knows the way that I take; when he has tested me, I will come forth as gold._

Job 23:10 (NIV)

 

On the day Mary Watson dies, John goes missing. He had stood, lost, in shock, among the sea of police and gathering press—unblinking, barely breathing, too far away. Sherlock had reached, stretched out his arm, spread his fingers. But John sniffed, nodded, turned, and walked away. Sherlock let him go.

The baby died three weeks after being born. Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. The casket was small (too small), as was the gathering of the mourners. Sherlock had kissed him that day, a press of lips to forehead in front of the sink in the church’s toilets (John’s eyes closed, the smell of dried rain in his hair, the barest touch of fingertips at Sherlock’s elbow).

It’s only been a month since, but they both knew who Mary was (or rather, _wasn’t_ ). Some would say this end was inevitable. But Sherlock knows, that doesn’t really matter—the _inevitable_. What matters is that John will not answer his phone, is not at his house, is not at any of the eight pubs he’s likely to haunt, is not at Regent’s Park—is not anywhere.

Four hours seem like four years. And, they are—years. Two of them are his fault. Two are God’s. That is, if he could find some faith. It would be convenient to assign blame to a faceless deity.

The trail of smoke from his cigarette follows him up the seventeen steps to his flat. Mrs Hudson is away, visiting her sister, so there is no one to stop him. He holds it between his teeth as he shrugs the coat from his shoulders, folds it over the back of the desk chair. When he closes his eyes on the sofa, he can hear the echo of gunshots, feel the echo of pain in his chest.

From one of the darkest, dustiest places in his mind palace, Sherlock recalls the biblical story of Job—a man so faithful, so righteous, God saw fit to allow the loss of everything (wealth, family, home) just to see what would happen. Perhaps John has gone east, west, north, south—just to tell God himself where to go. Sherlock smiles. John Watson _could_ make God balk.

Sherlock opens his eyes again in darkness. New moon. The only light is a sliver of streetlight from the parting in the curtains. The eleventh stair creaks. Sherlock sits up.

John opens the flat door, steps through, and closes it. He does not turn on the light. He does not speak. He crosses the space to his chair, and he sits.

Sherlock switches on the lamp beside him, and then he stands and moves to the kitchen, switching that light on, too. He boils the kettle for tea. He brings two mugs into the living room and sets one of them on the table beside John. John’s hands do not move from his lap. Sherlock sits across from him, blowing on the surface of his own tea, and takes a sip. He toes off his shoes, bends to gather them and slide them side-by-side next to the back leg of the chair. He extends his legs, carpet soft under his heels, and lets his thighs fall open. John meets his eyes, reaches for the handle of his mug, and takes a sip. One of John’s feet comes to rest on the carpet between Sherlock’s. They finish their tea in silence. They sit for a long time after that.

John’s eyes close, cheek against his fist. Sherlock stands, brings the mugs to the sink, and switches all the lights off. He moves as quietly as he can to his bedroom where he changes into his pajamas and gets into bed. He feels heavy, bones sinking into the mattress from a force much stronger than gravity. The case is done. Sleep should come easily. It doesn’t.

Sherlock is still awake when John enters the room. The sound of his breathing is quiet, much quieter than the sound of rustling fabric-against-fabric, fabric-against-skin as John strips: his socks, his jumper, his shirt, his trousers, his pants. They fall to the floor in a whisper. Sherlock watches him as he does it, as the streetlight from the window paints him gold in patches—stripe of hair, an ear, the gnarled scar on his shoulder, ribcage, nipple, navel, hip, the side of one thigh. John’s gaze is on him, too, hard and _hurt_ and unapologetic.

The mattress dips when John slides in next to him, and Sherlock’s heaviness dissipates, becomes lighter. He falls a bit to the centre without warning, his knee against the highest spot on John’s shin. He doesn’t pull away. John’s breath is on his chin, his scent in his nostrils. They blink at each other slowly, John’s hand shoved under the pillow beneath his head. John leans forward, presses his lips to Sherlock’s forehead, and Sherlock’s eyes fall shut just as the breath leaves his lungs.

Inhale. Open. John’s head is back on his pillow. Blink.

Exhale. Forehead against John’s chest, lips tickle from hair. Knee still at John’s leg. Inhale. Exhale. Close.

When he opens his eyes again, it is morning. John’s arm is warm around his back, hand pushed up under his tee shirt, flat against the small of his back. Sherlock’s hand is at John’s waist. John is sleeping, thigh against Sherlock’s thigh, breath against Sherlock’s breath. John shifts, the rasp of his chin stubble against the pillow, the brush of his thumb against Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock sweeps his palm, the tips of his fingers, over the jut of John’s hipbone.

John opens his eyes slowly, and Sherlock does not move. The room grows lighter. John’s lips are pink.

John’s thumb has not stopped moving; but for that, he is still. Everything is still.

John’s eyes close and open, so slowly. They close again, and Sherlock believes he could count his lashes from their glowing tips. John shifts forward, tightens the arm around Sherlock’s back; their bodies are flush against each other. Sherlock’s hand smoothes over a shoulder blade, a shoulder, to the pulse pounding beneath the skin of John’s neck. Sherlock’s thumb traces an earlobe, fingers in the short hair at the back of John’s skull. And then, lips together (chests together, stomachs together, legs together, erections together).

Sherlock parts his lips, sucks in John’s upper one, grazes teeth against skin, tongue to soothe the burn, and John’s mouth opens wide, sealing against Sherlock’s as his tongue slides inside.

Hands over ribs, spine, buttocks. Legs part, bodies fitted, erections together; _gasp_. Hands, lips, tongue, teeth. Push, rut, grunt, moan. _Cry out_.

Breath against his breath. Lips against his lips.

The sunlight is molten gold against John’s skin.

“I love you.”

~End~

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to [youngdarling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/youngdarling) for helping me make this story better and not throwing things at me when I asked about one line at least a thousand times.
> 
> And, we've made it to my most favorite trope in all of ever. I hope I did it justice. I could read one kajillion stories about these two gettin' in bed together.


End file.
